My Almond Eyed Teacher

The first daughter of my grandmother was born with almond-shaped eyes, a weak heart, and persistent congestion.  As Yvonne was their first child, and as medical advances were not what they are today, my grandparents didn't know that something was not right, not normal, for quite some time.  In fact, Yvonne was well into her second year before the doctors broke the heart-breaking news to my grandparents:  she was mongoloid, "retarded," and, for the sake of the young family and the additional children they were sure to have, they should consider institutionalizing her.  

My grandmother refused.  As a result, Yvonne lived in a home filled (eventually) with six brothers and sisters, love, work, energy, and chaos.  She never attended school; instead she stayed at home and took care of her baby dolls, her magazine collection, and her room.

To her brothers and sisters, Yvonne, Bonnie as they called her, was both the oldest and the youngest child.  Although she was theoretically the oldest, her siblings were fiercely protective of their almond-eyed little sister.  They shielded her from everything harmful: teasing, danger, fear, difficulties--in essence, the outside world.  My mother claims that the Johnson kids evaluated the worth of a person based solely on the way they treated Yvonne. She also claims she knew my dad was "the one" because he immediately bonded with her big, little sister.  In fact, Yvonne fell in love with him first, which was revealed when her almond-shaped eyes lit up each time he came to their home.

My first recollection of Yvonne doesn't involve her physical presence.  Instead, my older cousin, John, and I were playing in grandma's back yard and he told me about her.  He whispered she was a "blue baby" and when I didn't seem shocked, he added that she drank Draino.  My 4-year old mind didn't know how to process and connect these pieces of information.  I envisioned a smaller version of her playing under the kitchen sink, drinking Draino, choking, and turning blue.  I even imagined her foaming at the mouth.  I knew by his tone and secretive glances that he probably shouldn't be telling me, but it didn't dawn on me that he was explaining the reason for her problems.  In truth, I hadn't yet recognized that she was different. Because she loved to play dolls with me and functioned well at my level, I just thought of her as my friend--someone like me.

But that conversation planted a seed and I began to study her.  I began to catalog her differences: she was the biggest person in the primary class, outsiders struggled

understanding her speech, she did not run and play with my cousins and me when we played outside, no-one bossed her around, and my grandpa was gentle with her in a way that he was not with the rest of us.  His love for us was demonstrated brusquely and unexpectedly, but she was never the recipient of gruff whisker burns, a heavy swat on the behind, or a quick jerk of her legs just when she had sprawled out for a nap or an hour in front of the television.

When I was five, we moved in next door to grandma and I subsequently developed a need to protect Yvonne too.  After kindergarten one day, I invited a friend over to play. Yvonne walked from grandma's house to ours for a surprise visit.  Although it wasn't more than 100 yards, her weak heart struggled from the exertion.  When she arrived, she was panting, her face was purple, and her typically slurred speech was more jumbled than usual. My friend looked at her, backed into a corner, began to cry, and said she wanted to go home.  I don't know if I felt shame or anger, but I too wanted her to go home. From then on, I carefully selected friends--friends that had already met my special aunt, friends that didn't notice that she wasn't a large five-year old child.

She died when I was 8 years old.  I heard my parents talking in the middle of the night and I knew something was wrong. I eavesdropped for a few minutes and heard her name, so I got up and questioned them.  When they told me, I cried.  It is my first memory of tears.

She died before I could really understand how different she was.  She died before I knew that it was not normal to have giant children as friends.  She died before I could categorize her as "other."  But she did live long enough to retard my own development of the fear of difference.  She was for me, I now believe, an almond-eyed, weak-hearted, unexpected, and most valued teacher.

Written February 15, 2015

Happy and Sad!

I am learning that simultaneous emotions can co-exist and when they do they are more intensely felt, especially emotions that are supposedly diametrically opposed like joy and pain, happiness and sadness.

As parents, one of our primary goals has been to raise kids that are independent, kids that we feel confident are capable of fulfilled, self-identified living.  But when we get glimpses of—or rather slammed in the face by—success, feelings of success and joy are radically intensified by feelings of sadness, maybe even despair.

I trained my daughter to be the perfect travel companion.  My ideology of travel is likely innate for her (she began my form of travel as a 4 month old fetus as we made our way through Europe): move hard and fast, eat little, pack in a full day every day, sleep only when necessary, miss nothing. With this as our mantra, we need little more than an excuse to set out on an adventure. The boys (my husband and son) generally prefer home, so we often leave them to engage in some some sort of male bonding while Meg and I tackle the world. I must admit I feel a pretty significant sense of pride in her ability to navigate a map, a city, a subway system, a freeway, a museum, a crowd.  

A few years ago, though, she announced that she was heading up a trip to New York and Washington D.C.—with her friends (I wasn't needed). As she updated me daily--with photos and itineraries, I was so proud of her adventurous nature, her confidence, her experience, her independence, and her thoroughness.  But I must also admit, I felt a little betrayed, a little left out, a little upset that she didn't need me.  I was both happy and sad, proud and jealous. 

I feel the same way today.  We took our baby 18-year old boy to the airport for a potentially life changing experience.  He earned a prestigious academic scholarship at a private liberal arts college and a spot on the baseball team—2000 miles from home.  I am so excited and happy for him and his upcoming hard-earned journey.  I cannot wait to hear about his experiences and to track his growth. But I am also so sad—sad to be left with an empty bedroom and a quiet home, sad to be missing out on all the exciting opportunities he will be having, and sad that our happy little family is growing up and achieving independence—something I know I want.  

 

My heart, filled to capacity with both joy and pain, is about to explode....and I wonder if independence is overrated, even though I know it isn't.  On a day like today, I believe--no, I know--a singular emotion would be insufficient.  Joy and despair sometimes belong together, and often when they are joined they push us to growth.

Written January 11, 2015

New Year's Resolution Fails

Each new year brings with it the frenzy over goal setting and resolutions--a time to self evaluate, determine what we want to take into the new year, what we want to leave behind, and what we want to change or improve.  The cycle, though, is in some ways culturally predetermined and we know it:  we set goals, work on them for a few weeks, and then essentially forget about them for the rest of the year.  Some people don't even look at the goals they set last year as they set new goals for the upcoming year.  

The cycle is so well known and understood that weight loss and fitness goals have become a sort of ubiquitous cultural New Year's Resolution joke.  I fall victim to the cycle myself as I set personal fitness and weight loss goals yearly.  As I look back over the years, though, I notice two trends: my goals have become more specific (I have learned about achievability and self knowledge indicates that I need specificity to succeed) and my list has become longer each year.  Explain that.  I know the cycle, I have succumbed to it, I have learned from it.  Ironically, I have improved the outset of my process—the setting of more specific goals—and at the same time I have set myself up to fail at ever more resolutions.  

Last year, I set 11 goals that fell into four different categories: health, finances, intellectual and interpersonal.  This year, I set 14 goals and not surprisingly, they fall into the same four categories.  Honestly, most of them are essentially the same goals in language that is even more specific.

So if New Years resolutions are a vicious, self-defeating cycle, why do we do it?  Why do I do it?

I set goals each year—often the same goals—because I believe in the value of self evaluation and I believe in the desire for self improvement.  I believe that the simple act of goal setting reflects the reality that I am improving.  The fact that I set many of the same goals doesn't necessarily mean that I have failed; it means that many of the things that were important to me last year are important to me this year, which means that my values are consistent and that I am traveling a straight path.  It also means that things that are hard for me are just that:  hard for me.  But I also believe the mere setting of goals represents progress and as such is worth doing...again and again and again.

Written January 4, 2015